


Like A Violin

by ofthecrown



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, dont @ me, i crave validation, i only had the courage to write this after an all-nighter, no im kidding i write fic please @ me for literally any reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 07:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofthecrown/pseuds/ofthecrown
Summary: Jane Crocker is not so much the 'heiress' to a detective agency as she is the only person capable enough to take it from her father when he's ready to retire. "Heiress", she thinks, implies that she has no say in her future, and did not work hard to get here where she is tonight: behind several doors that require several keys talking to a man who has murdered dozens and dozens of people.





	Like A Violin

There's a snake in the dungeon.

You walk with purpose. You've never been a 'leisurely stroll' girl. You have a destination, and your legs are there to carry you to it, not look pretty while moving. You have always had an extreme prejudice when it came to criminals, when it came to right and wrong, what's good and bad. Everyone tells you it's part of what makes you such a good leader, but in situations like these, you can point to a windsor knot of reasons why you have your doubts.

You fuss with a heavy lanyard of keys. It's completely impractical, you're sick of carrying this thing around, but the nature of the dungeons is such that reinforcement through various locked doors are crucial. Your father would have a fit if he ever found out that you made a master key, that it opens every stupid, convoluted lock in the labyrinthine hellscape. He would not so much _roar_ as he would _hiss_ about compromising safety for efficiency. You want to know what happens when someone lights a fire behind eight doors with two locks each and he can't get all the keys right in time to save the key evidence stuck in the brain of some hapless dimwit you caught up in here.

You didn't get to bring the master key today. You were with your father all day, and came straight here after finishing up at the office with him. You pull open the second-to-last door, and when the lanyard falls to the ground with a loud clatter, you just give a groan that echoes off the walls. You thump your head against one of them, and sort of use it as support as you lean down to grab them again. You're so damn tired of fussing with protocol. That's not supposed to be the case. You're _supposed_ to be all _about_ protocol, like your father. You're pretty much just supposed to be like him in _general_ , in every way that really matters- but you'd argue that loving rules and order forms doesn't really matter. The _truth_ matters, _justice_ matters; keeping track of sixteen different keys and their corresponding locks does _not_. You are loathe to admit it, but you are gradually falling into the trap of believing that people decades older than you are faded, out of touch, and impractical. Their experience counts, yes, of course it does...it's just that the experience is _yellowed_ , faded with age, and not all of it remains _relevant_.

You take a deep breath and let it out as you keep walking. Last door. Through it is the cell, a few sturdy iron bars and one more lock between you and a murderer. It's not like that scares you- you feel wholly and entirely safe with this particular criminal. Your father would _never_ understand that, and frankly, he'd have a right to question you. Maybe you shouldn't feel so sure of yourself.

He has a way of making you feel a little less so, every time you get him in here for interrogation. The quirk of his eyebrow, the lean in his hip when he stands, the press of his shoe to the rough and gritty stone of the floor- it questions you. It turns the entire operation around on you. He asks you questions without the proper punctuation, he doesn't even need _words_ to make you wonder hours after he's gone if what you're doing is really the right thing at all. You hate it.

And he's the only person who can do it, so of course, you bring him back.

Over, and over, and over again, you bring him back, and if you weren't such a brilliant detective, you'd accuse him of being amenable to returning.

When you see him, he's got his jacket off, draped _lovingly_ over the little cot like a blanket. You've had that conversation before. He doesn't want it dirty, and he knows you're humane enough to get the sheets changed as frequently as you have criminals locked up, so he feels rather better having it there than somewhere he could lean against the wall and scuff it. He doesn't harbor the same care for his dress shirts, which he freely allows the abuse of the rubble around him. He says it's because these things are a dime a dozen, not hard to tailor at all, and while of course he would never _prefer_ any of his clothes to be dirtied or ruined, he's not going to sacrifice function and comfort for _every_ inch of stitch.

You hate that you have had such casual discussions with him. You hate that not only does he make you play his games, you _willingly participate_ these days. You don't fight them anymore. You've learned, he's no use to you at all if you don't entertain him. It's maddening. He never breaks, no matter how hard you try to wait him out. Silence does nothing, chattering does nothing, isolating him does nothing, threatening him does nothing- nothing, nothing, nothing. It all only works on _his_ terms.

Your father was worse with him. While he seemed to, at first, have some kind of a _rapport_ with the criminal, it turned out that what was actually happening was _worse_ than flat-out noncompliance. No, this was _purposeful misleading_ , sending your father to the wrong places, or the right places but at the wrong times...giving names just a letter off, just a syllable short...it was enough to drive your father into quite a fit of raged pipe-puffing. You have to admit, you thought it was funny, underneath the outrage and the dismay.

For _some_ reason, however, he always responds to _you_. Which is why, though father doesn't know it, you've continued to apprehend and drag this narcissist in for questioning again, and again, and again. He gives you your _best_ tips. He gives you your _sweetest_ little victories. He is- only partially- responsible for the continued success of the Crocker name in some of the biggest cases you've ever cracked! How can you _give up_ such a _valuable_ fountain of information?

Well, the answer to _that_ is...simple, and not, at the same time. You know you should stop this nonsense before it gets too big for you to handle. You know that the more you sneak around behind your father's back as a grown adult- oh, it was all fine when you were younger, it was harmless and it taught you such valuable things you never would have learned if you hadn't defied his overbearing nature- the more this has a chance of backfiring in your face. Like everyone knows, you have had a strong sense of black and white for a long, long time, and the sustainability of a relationship with a total egotist like this...it makes the little gray bits become far more _densely packed_.

You pocket the keys, letting the lanyard dangle out, and he actually turns his body to face you, in greeting. You've left the full array of weapons in his possession laying clearly and openly on a long wooden table several feet away from the cell. This was an agreement from months ago, that you would allow him to see his weapons were not tampered with, or somehow sabotaged, while he was in your 'care'. You never had the intent to kill him, harm him, or even keep him for long. You just wanted your information, and these? Well, these were the precautions you took in order to keep rendezvous from ending in blood.

He's still a _murderer_ after all. You can't just go around _trusting_ those.

You drag over the old metal chair, sigh, and take a seat in it. You are outside of his range of reach, but still a comfortable sitting distance from the bars you've got to look at him through. You open your mouth to speak, but he goes first.

"Tired, Jane?"

"Very, yes."

"Shame. Busy nights, these."

"Yes, and I get no reprieve from the likes of you, Droog."

"Don't flatter while I can't return the favor in your custody."

"Who says you can't return the favor?"

"Oh, I don't think you'd like me to, really, with the limits put on me by these _uninhabitable_ conditions."

"I think our accommodations are swell, Diamonds. Better than whatever blood-soaked rug you sleep on, anyway."

"You make me out to be such a _monster_."

"You are one."

"Are you sure?"

You're starting to think the snake in the dungeon is not Diamonds Droog.

**Author's Note:**

> i need you to know i am honestly and wholly terrified of sharing my jane with the world in this the year of our lord 2019 so please be kind about her dialog because i am NOT re-reading homestuck just to figure out how she would adapt her manner of speech to speak as an adult.
> 
> also not to sound like im from 2006 or anything but i cant tell you how much i appreciate every comment i ever get on anything so please god if you have anything to say jUST SAY IT


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